Belle Prouvaire, proud mother of one Jean Prouvaire
by samkj30
Summary: A bit more understanding of the loved Jean and his roots. Totally created by myself.


Belle Prouvaire, proud mother of one Jean Prouvaire

Explosive was her husband's nature, just as it was becoming her second borne's too.  
His temper kept a steady stream of uneasiness throughout the Prouvaire household. It seeped through the walls and created a frantic dance for Belle's heart. Belle had to keep a constant eye on her husband, not for the fear of a flying fist but for the cruel words that might set forth at any minute, for she had long since realised there was no common trigger. Thus making outbursts unpredictable.  
These words were spewed forth from her beloved husband in times of frustration. Not frustration of an obvious or external factor, but that of a once such passionate man being weighed down by his family's expectations. Of adventures dashed by manipulative Aunts and Uncles. Of seeing his good intentions twisted by money hungry politicians but mostly seeing his words of change rejected time and time again. When Jean Seniour lost his temper, he lost it with his two unsuspecting sons not his formidable wife. He was impulsive but not unintelligent in that regard.  
Even then, his tirades never lasted long as with a few well placed words from Belle. Jean Senior would curse then retreat to his study, usually with head hung low.  
Later she knew her husband would smile and applaud her unwavering courage. On these nights, they retired to the bedroom and she would remind him with a certain smugness, that it was indeed his own fault in picking a strong minded women to marry. At this he would always smile softly and tell her he would prefer no alternative. A little spark of her husband would appear again, and she could not help how instinctively her body melded into his, linked in an embrace which lasted through the night. Belle clung on to him as if able to keep the spark alive till morning by doing so.

In the morning, the same cycle repeated, Belle's characterisms only seemed to fuel her husband's day time rage and so she went to her sanctuary. The garden.  
Oh she did love her gardening, loved watching how little seeds could become beautiful flowers. Loved how each type had its own identity, own shape, colour and habits. It was in her garden that Belle did her best thinking.  
Her favourite pastime was studying and observing language and word. She found it an endless occupation discovering how words could be styled and shaped for the user's intent. Whether to cause harm, demand authority or to beg a favour. Although self admittedly being without poetic talent, Belle liked to scribble raunchy short stories within her journals. It gave her an outlet from her otherwise sexually frustrated situation, a life outside her life where in the pages of paper she could escape her often romantic stricken marriage. Somewhere she would live in adventure and be a wild self who engaged in spontaneously. Not every women around her, thought or acted as she did, Belle had learned that awkwardly. That fact however did not stop her written works attracting attention from said women. Often Belle could be found on a Saturday with a group of giggling neighbors, having tea on the porch. This being while the husbands looked on, unsure about the commotion but uncaring enough to simply leave their wives be. Everyone judged Jean's wife to be a bad influence on other women of her class, but no husband could quite put their finger on why . So for this reason things continued as they were, polite smiles exchanged and pleasantries following their never ending circle. Over time Belle became quite the success, although not publicaly famous (Jean Senior being liberal but still being retrained by social pressure), she became famous to only one audience. Her stories became asked for in hushed voices from blushing women , one copy for a friend, some more specific requests... money exchanging over the fence - fresh seeds to expand her garden.  
Written word made her money. Written word allowed herself and these women escapism. Created joy. Yes indeed Belle Prouvaire held no poetic bone in her body... but she had become an artist of some kind.

The years went on to be quite turbulent, but she was lucky in the sense that she had her first borne Jean Junior. It was not that she disliked her younger son, but that it seemed he did not like her. She found it hard to bond with the boy who only seemed to hold his father's worst traits and so when the children returned from schooling Jorge would go to his father, and Jean would come to her. Perhaps not healthy but it worked. Even as a child her little Jean was a little different. He did take part in the usual play such as roughousing and sports but only when prompted to. If left to choose he liked to go along his mother's hard grown flowers, picking the heads off them. Once gathered he would look at them in wonder as if trying to uncover their secrets. Almost scientifically, a six year old Jean would mesh together and try to plant dead flower heads. As if to create a new flower all together. Jean Senior blamed his oldest son's odd behaviour on Belle. His reasoning being that all the hours staring up to the sky, whilst in his bassinet must of effected him. He reckoned the boy now permanently would have his head in the sky.  
Truth be told, Jean Junior barely remembered lying watching the birds pass, he knew his mother had done this as she had tended to her garden. He did however remember the peace and tranquility of falling asleep on soft grass as a young child with his mother's soft voice carrying in the wind. It comforted him to know she was never to far away but at the same time he felt free.  
Young Jean Junior abhorred any situation where life form was not free, from the smallest ant to the maid dad hired against both his and his mother's wishes...It seemed unfair. His father assured him Aiglentine was better paid than most but still it unsettled a then ten year old Jean. No one in his school shared the same worries he had found, nor his neighbors nor his teachers .  
That was until one day a very clumsy boy literally stumbled into his life at the age of fourteen. Together they felt as two pieces of the same coin. One eloquent with flowing speech and well picked arguments. Another being an opportunist, words to shock, a character that always seemed out of place and therefore drew attention. It was the teachers who simply ignored their ranting in favour of reading a book, or at a picture on the wall, whatever distraction closest really. Refusing to answer questions about how society got to be as it is...It was infuriating and yes both young men had to give up eventually each time. For as much as they were enthused, they were hungry for their dinners. One day Jean approached his mother after another warning from his father to behave. At least she was on his side. For once, Belle did not immediately answer her son who was so filled with questions. Instead she smiled softly at Jean and motioned for him to follow her. He was led away by his mother to outside their property. Jean had never been to this area in particular before and so when he saw what it contained. He almost physically kicked himself.  
It was beautiful. Acres of colour. Lots of colours. Flowers hid the grass there were so many. All different shapes and sizes, there was no order to them at all, some wound up trees some curled in odd directions, some seemed to be weeds but looked just as beautiful. Jean's eyes darted back and forth until his mother brought his attention back. She motioned to sit. Jean sat whilst wary of crushing any lovely petals. His mother sat too. It was when the light hit Belle, that to her son, she looked for that moment angelic. She had a strangely serious face on, it was uncharacteristic and made him nervous.  
Belle turned to look at her now almost grown son. He would be leaving home soon she thought. Her time with him running short.

"On a dreary day, my dear Jean. You may wish to pick a lovely flower and bring it inside to brighten your day. Surely to do so is to kill it, maybe not immediately but inevitably. All so you can have a home comfort? You may have a few days of happiness but then it will wither. Wouldn't it be better for all involved to take a venture out on a dreary day, rather than avoid it? Why not go up and look at things up close then leave them to continue? Appreciate its beauty. How cruel to rob any life form of its chance of growth, the chance to grow in whatever direction it chooses. Not a man alive feels they can control their own life fully yet ...yet feels they can hack and bend others lives as they please. Look how beautiful this is Jean. Is it not just beautiful? So much more rewarding a surrounding that my own pruned and ordered garden? Healthier. Jean, I have tried to raise you wild. Not everyone has that chance. I have chosen my life Jean, and as mad as that may sound - with your father. You have yet to choose, but please dear Jean, help those who cannot choose. Freedom is a great infection. This scene proves it. It does not matter which way you go about it. Help people when you can but not to your own detriment. For then you can help none. I love you and...I am sorry that this is all I have to impart on you in words of wisdom." Jean junior smiled softly at his mother. So much like his father in his best moments. Belle knew he understood.

When he reached his room that night, Jean raced to his desk and threw open an empty journel. His hand began scribbling in words faster than his brain could think.

"To be in this world holds great power. To be in this world fully is to surround oneself with it and to encourage its growth. Beautiful things may be a matter of opinion but true equality - that will always be beauty itself.

I am wild

Jehan Prouvaire"


End file.
